


Knife

by double_negative



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Blood, Dissociation, Eye Gouging, Gen, Guilt, Murder, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-17 11:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13076154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/double_negative/pseuds/double_negative
Summary: It doesn't really feel like revenge when she thinks of it.





	Knife

**Author's Note:**

> So. Angela was one of the characters I used for coping for a very long time. I never wrote about her, because I couldn't stomach it. But now I really need to write a venting fic. So here it is.  
> Mind the warnings. It's not as explicit as I wanted it to be, not dark enough also, but still, this deals with some heavy things.  
> I am sorry for not writing something good and happy for her. She deserved so much better.

Her hands don't shake for the first time in a while. Her grip on the handle is tight, her knuckles white from the pressure she applies. The knife plunges down and drags up, splattering crimson, down, up, in, out, slicing through flesh like it's butter. She takes it as a compliment about what a good housekeeper she is, her knives always sharp, her kitchen always spotless.

Except for now, when the immaculate floors are slathered in tacky red, a pool spreading out wide under her legs where she's kneeling, it's seeping into the fabric of her pajama pants and socks.

The knife goes up and down again, in and out, and she is not angry at all. This doesn't feel like revenge, like some kind of righteous retribution for the years of being abused, outright violated. It's doesn't feel like payback for innocence lost, she thinks to herself. Actually, it doesn't feel like anything at all. It's a cold detachment, vague bewilderment and nothing else.

She forces herself to look, because she knows, she's supposed to feel something here and now. She forces herself to look and her father, no, _that thing_ he has become, stares back, almost accusatory, so she gouges it's eyes, twisting the knife deeper into it's eyesockets, watching as blood and what fluid is left of it's ruptured eyes runs down it's cheeks. It almost looks like tears. It does nothing for Angela.

There's so much blood inside of this thing. It bleeds red, just like any person she knows. It's all the same, but also so different. The muscle that was so firm, unyelding under her weak attempts to get away before is separating under her blade so easily. Why didn't she do anything like this before?

It's a curious thing, human body. You can put it through so much, subject it to any kind of torture and it can survive and endure for so long. Yet, just one unfortunate cut and it's all over. Angela doesn't stop at one.

Her father was bleeding out, with every lost drop becoming more "it" than "him" and she just kept cutting. Now she's separating flesh from bone in erratic, violent slashes. She drags her knife along it's ribcage, catching on the curving bone, too hard to go through. If she wants to see it's heart, she would have to try harder, find some other tool to pry it's ribs open. She considers for a moment, holding it's heart and crushing it in her hands, but decides she can't be bothered, no matter how tempting it is. The spell she's under might just fade and she would probably regret what she's done, or even worse, will remember that all this time it was her own fault.

She can't afford that before the work is done. There is one left.

It's not revenge, because deep down in her heart she knows, she has no right for vengeance. There's nothing to avenge, because she deserved it all. Every bit of hurt this thing caused her, she deserved. She was a bad sister, a worse daughter.

There is little precision in her slashes, but there is no malice either. Mostly, she's just interested to see, what would happen, how far can she take it all. Every new gaping red gash laid across it's flesh is a new wound across her entire being, is a new weight added to already crushing guilt. She doesn't regret it yet, but she knows she will.

Something really stinks. Her feet stick to the grime on the floor as she stands up, shakily, her grip on the knife holding the whole of her together.

She doesn't look back at the corpse, she has no need to, it's almost unrecognizable now. Gone are the eyes that would stare her down accusatory, now drying up in gelatinous streaks across it's cheeks. Gone is the tongue that would dart out over his meaty lips, so salacious, it now hangs to the side, a bloodied almost-stump, connected only by a thin layer of skin where she withdrew her blade. Gone are the hands that would beat and grope and punch and hold down, now limp, flayed meat. This thing holds no more power over her and yet she doesn't feel free.

She knows she probably never will be. You can stop hurting, but the guilt remains. After all, even Mother said, she deserved what happened. She was so bad. There was nothing good waiting for her, she should have just endured what came her way and been grateful. It was all her fault and now she has murder to add to her list of sins. But she doesn't have to feel so bad about it yet.

Her brother will be home soon.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want more Angela feels, might I suggest listening to Stabbing Westward's "[Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_4XsN6TStU)"?  
> Just don't say I didn't warn you.


End file.
